Masquerade
by fireworkfiasco
Summary: Death is simply another mask he wears, isn't it? A look at the world after.


**Masquerade  
**Rating: PG.13  
Disclaimer: Phh. Don't I wish.  
Blurb: Death is simply another mask he wears, isn't it?

* * *

Death is simply another mask he wears, isn't it? He's worn so many through his lifetime – those for friends, for teachers, for the Dark Lord, for Dumbledore… Even one for himself, to hide what he was becoming.

But that doesn't change it, does it? It doesn't change the fact that he's lying at my feet. And I'll never know him again.

My mask crumbles away as I follow the familiar lines and plains of his face, revealing the pain that I've hidden deep inside ever since I was a wee one, destined to love one who was destined to die. My masks are never as convincing as his – his were perfected and brutally real – and I could never hold them in place as he could…

Maybe it was spending so long amongst those Muggles. Or maybe it was simply the fact that he was destined for greatness. I long to tear a page from his book, to hide myself from the world's eyes. They cannot see me – I must learn to hide behind my masks…

His were always so convincing. They still are.

Death is simply another face he presents to the world. There's been so many, he could host his own masquerade…

His happy face, shown to those close to him, worried about him. Those who couldn't see the scared man-child inside, stretching to become the wizard the world wanted.

The brave mask, tied to all of his own, that was presented to the world every hour of every day. He never faltered in what he had come to do; he came and he fought and he died. And now he lies here, his face a gesture of death, bravery still peeking through defiantly, as though challenging the world to put it away, to pry it from his face.

And I remember all too well his loving mask; the one that hid from me, from my mother, from everyone, what he was truly feeling; that we shouldn't love him. That he wasn't worth the pain, knowing what he knew, knowing what could become of him.

But I loved that mask the most – for it was the one that encouraged me to become the witch I am today, the woman I am today. I believed that he loved me, and maybe in his way, he did. But even with that…

It doesn't change that he still lies, dead, on the floor.

Soon the world will come searching for him, for their champion. For my friend, my partner, my lover. But he will not show them any more masks. They will see death and they will forget; they all forget after a while.

And the world will put on their masks again and we shall fall into a ridiculous repeat, history doomed to recur because all we have learned is death. All we know is masks.

But he was the best at hiding behind them. I would not have known that he wore them so seamlessly if I hadn't now the time to study this mask…

Death. It all seems so final, so harsh, so… I can't grasp it. I still believe that those large, green eyes will simply blink at me, and he'll roll over and climb to his feet. That will be that and the world will rejoice.

But there is no faint tinge to his cheeks, no life-giving tingle for a pulse. There is nothing but the stony façade of death, a cheap and horrible parlor trick that casts his handsome features in an everlasting set.

My eyes can't help but embrace his body again and again, terrorizing the dead, studying without embarrassment the physique of the man in front of me.

When had he grown so? Where had that shadow of a beard come from? Why were his shoulders so broad, so unhindered? And how could he, that force so full of bitter magic – good magic, nonetheless – leave this earth so simply, without a fanfare, without trumpets, without a fight?

I saw him to the last. I saw him fall. He gave in to what had been eating him alive for years now and he died at my feet.

Never, even if I outlive my own masks, will I forget. I cannot – the man I love perished at my fingertips and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My world died with him – and I cease to exist without him.

But this is not about me, about my pain at losing him – this is for those who knew him as I knew him. For those of us who lived with his masks because we were too afraid to probe the surface, to know the man underneath.

There was so much there – so much to give, to lose, to feel, to do… And he lost it all because we were too selfish to find it. But I must ask myself – would it have mattered? Even if we had made the effort – could we have saved him?

Would he not be staring, lifelessly, up at a cold gray reality without him in it?

I cannot ask these questions. It matters not what the outcome is – he will still be dead and the world will still come for him…

But right now there is only me and him and the rest of it ceases to exist. And so I tell him of everything, ignoring his mask and pretending that I can see inside him to study his soul, the essence of the man now lost to me.

I tell him how I knew I was going to have my heart broken by him the moment I saw him. And did he break it? Magnificently, he did, not once, but hundreds of times by simply being the man I loved and the man who would save us all.

I tell him of what I would do to bring him back. Of the life I would surrender to have the world know his laughter again, to hear his steady voice echo down a hallway, to break a hundred rules if only to do what is right.

I tell him of the things I couldn't do before his death. The way I loved him, his hair, his eyes, his smile, his stubbornness. I tell him of little things that I kept secreted away simply because I was too afraid of being hurt. But this is the ultimate pain and nothing seems to matter now…

The sounds of the world stirring back to life awaken me from my guard over his body. I want to kiss him but I know that I cannot – his mask would be crooked, then and I could not dishonor him by unmasking him – the real him – to this cruel, heartless world; too selfish in being alive to mourn the loss of one single wizard, no matter his sacrifice.

And so, with careful fingers, I press my own mask of silent strength to my features and stand, awaiting the arrival of the rest.

And the masquerade continues, never ending.

_:fin:_


End file.
